


Never Was and Never Will Be

by L_Morgan



Series: The Never Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crush, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an attempt to rid himself of his obsession with Malfoy, Harry accompanies Seamus to a Muggle Club and surrenders himself to the attentions of a mysterious stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks for M_Kalena, Jadis, and Cedar for the careful betas and contributions. All remaining errors are mine. This story was originally posted at LJ in 2006.

_Zippers, Muggle London_   
_Midnight_

Harry blinked against the flashing lights that bounced off his glasses that had fogged up the moment he’d stepped into the club. Waiting for the lenses to clear, he glanced back at Seamus and smiled. “Nice confundus, by the way.” He motioned to the bouncer who had accepted his first ever Dumbledore card with a nothing more than a wink and a smile. “He didn’t even charge us.”

Seamus laughed, “Nah, tonight blonds get in free.”

“We’re not blond.” Harry pointed out.

“We’re not nineteen either.” Seamus shoved Harry towards the dance floor.

“But what if someone asks? It’s not like either one of us exactly looks it.”

Seamus tapped Harry’s hand, now smudged with ink. “He stamped us. Trust me, Harry; once you’re in, you’re in. Besides, me and my cousin came in loads of times this summer – and he’s just sixteen — and no one said a word.”

“I don’t know, Seamus,” Harry shouted over the din of techno and the rumble of baritone voices. “Maybe we should have worn hats or something.”

“Oh, come on, Harry,” Seamus scolded as he pulled Harry further into the seething mass of male bodies. “This is a bloody muggle club! No one cares and no one’s going to recognize us! Don’t worry, mate. We’ll have a grand time. You won’t just be ‘curious’ after this night is through, let me tell you!”

Harry opened his mouth but then closed it without a word.

“What?” Seamus asked, leaning near.

“Have you ever...” Harry swallowed, his cheeks burning. “...done anything with someone that –that you met here?”

“Yeah,” Seamus answered softly, his voice almost lost in the pulsating sound. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Harry. It’s just a bit of fun, really.”

Harry frowned and looked down at the concrete floor.

Seamus touched his hand. “Just one bit of advice, mate?”

Harry looked up. “What’s that?”

“Stay out of the bathroom.”

“That’s it?” Harry asked. “Stay out of the bathroom?”

Seamus nodded. “That and have a good time.”

Harry sighed. “But what if someone finds out?”

“We’re in a muggle club,” Seamus reiterated. “Who’s going to find out?”

“I suppose so.” Harry glanced around sizing the situation, before groaning and dropping his head in shame, causing Seamus to laugh uproariously.

“Bloody Malfoy,” Harry murmured as a half naked blond pushed by him, his hands lingering on Harry’s hips.

“He’s not the one that turned a little mixed-house ‘truth-or-dare’ into full disclosure, mate – that was all you.”

“Well, he asked didn’t he?!” Harry demanded. “Isn’t that the point of the soddin’ game?”

“Let it go, mate,” Seamus consoled. “Hey, truth is, you’re bi-curious. So let’s find some answers, shall we?” He encouraged, sweeping his arm out as if inviting Harry to step into the common room rather than the candy shop in front of him.

“Did you see his face?” Harry asked, remembering the look Malfoy had given him; he’d felt like an insect whose wings had been pinned down.

“Whose face?” Seamus asked; he sounded distracted, so Harry turned to see his housemate already trying to catch some bloke’s eye at the bar.

“Malfoy!” Harry snapped. “Who else?”

Seamus sighed, then turned, pulling Harry close, almost as if they were something more than the friends they were. “Look, Harry. You came out in front of the entire 7th year. We were able to get our hands on overnight passes out of Hogwarts. We’re standing in one of the hottest gay clubs in muggle London and you’re obsessing over Draco Malfoy?”

“I am not!”

“You are!” Seamus contradicted. “You’re bloody well obsessed!”

Harry’s mouth dropped open, but then he closed it resolutely and took a steadying breath. “I am not obsessed with Draco Malfoy,” he shouted through clenched teeth. “I am not obsessing over him, either. Why the hell would I be standing in a room full of half naked men obsessing over Draco Malfoy?”

“I dunno, mate.” Seamus shrugged, but his eyes held few questions. “Why would you be?”

At that moment, a muscular brunet slid by, rubbing his naked chest across Harry’s shoulders. Without even a by your leave, he rolled his hips and Harry felt the length of the stranger’s erection press against his ass. He also felt the rush of blood that blossomed beneath his skin.

“I think he’s interested.” Seamus smiled, his eyes continuing to undress the man as he passed.

“Really?” Harry squeaked, still blushing. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

Seamus just laughed, but then cast Harry his best puppy dog eyes. “Come on, Harry, just let Malfoy go. Just for one night, okay? You’re bi-curious,” he repeated, stepping back and nudging him towards the dance floor. “Get curious.”

“I said I was curious, Seamus,” Harry grumbled. “I didn’t say I wanted to do a N.E.W.T. on the subject.”

“Trust me on this.” Seamus pushed him out onto the dance floor. “Because believe you me, it’s a helluva better than potions.”

“And that’s supposed to convince anyone other than Malf—?” He bit back his arch nemesis’ name, but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge his friend’s amused grin.

Shaking his head, Harry mouthed, “I am not obsessing.”

“Right,” said Seamus. “Now, you have your wand?”

Harry patted his thigh where he’d transfigured a long narrow pocket. “Check.”

“Good.” Seamus smiled. “Now go on Harry – have some fun for a change.”

Trying to lose himself in the music, Harry glanced over in search of the dark god that – scarily enough — had touched him more intimately than any other person in his life. 'Pathetic, Potter.' He cringed at how much his inner voice sounded like Malfoy.

“Fuck!” Harry exclaimed. 'Maybe Seamus is right.'

“Is that an offer?”

Harry whipped his head around; taken aback to see the man that he’d just looked for across the room standing directly behind him.

Obviously not expecting an answer, the lithe stranger wrapped tanned arms around Harry’s waist from behind, his pelvis rocking Harry’s hips with the music.

“Relax,” he whispered, his lips moving fleetingly over Harry’s ear, his hands ghosting up Harry’s waist to the button down that he’d gotten second hand from Dudley. “Aren’t you hot?” Nimble fingers plucked at the utilitarian material, opening buttons along the way.

Hot palms slid over – tug, tug — and under the lightweight cotton T he wore beneath.

The rational part of Harry started to pull away, but he couldn’t – the offer of such closeness after a lifetime of nothing just too much to pass up. So he did the next best thing. Reaching down, he ran a reassuring hand across his wand and shot a self-conscious glance over to Seamus who was giving him a wide-eyed-thumbs-up.

“What’s your name, love?” his seducer murmured in a way that Harry could only think of as hungry.

“Har – Harry.”

“Larry?” he queried, yelling over the music.

“Harry!” he enunciated. “I’m Harry.”

The older boy, who was probably closer to Charlie’s age than Harry’s, looked a bit like a cross between Blaise Zabini and Cedric Diggory. Without warning, he leaned forward, catching Harry’s bottom lip between perfect white teeth. “Nice to meet you, Harry.” He licked the lip that he’d just released. “I’m Marco. Do you have a boyfriend, then?” he asked, as he unclasped the clunky buckle on Dudley’s belt and removed it, causing the too big jeans to dip dangerously on Harry’s hips. “Mmm...” a warm tongue teased Harry’s neck. “That’s better, now, isn’t it, love?”

Harry gaped and merely nodded as Marco tucked the old belt in the back of his leather pants, and took his hand.

“You look like you need a drink, Harry.” Marco glanced over at Seamus, who was still staring openly. “Is that your boyfriend?”

“Huh?” Harry’s entire body tingled and he felt what seemed like all the blood in his body centering just south of the ever-slipping waistband of his jeans. Brain cells met quick and painless deaths as Marco stroked the small of his back beneath the already damp cotton.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Marco kissed his neck.

When Harry lowered his eyes, the strobe light cast platinum shards across Marco’s dark looks that made him think of Malfoy. Harry pulled away and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Marco leaned in and tasted the corner of his mouth; it wasn’t a real kiss but it affected him a hundred times more than Cho’s watery missive. “You need a drink. Come on, love. Let’s go.”

Head already swimming, Harry tried to protest, only to be hauled across the dance floor and wedged into a secluded booth that had vacated immediately upon their arrival.

With another quick kiss, Marco strode to the bar.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. His pulse was jumping, his face flushed. Although Hermione had made him promise that he wouldn’t do anything “stupid,” he knew that that was one promise that he wouldn’t be keeping. He laughed out loud, then bit his lip and shook his head disbelievingly.

Someone wanted him – for him. Not for the scar, not for the prophecy. For the first time in, maybe, ever, he felt normal. He felt like he was living life, rather than waiting for death.

“Harry?”

Harry started, surprised to see Seamus slide in opposite them and shoot Marco a suspicious glance. Marco was making his way back carrying a tray of shot glasses full of amber liquid, a saltcellar, and a bowl of limes.

“You okay, mate?”

“He’s fine.” Marco answered, sliding into Harry’s side of the booth; he didn’t stop until they were thigh to thigh. Carding one hand through Harry’s hair, he glanced over at Seamus. “Care to join us, Harry’s friend? I think we can spare a couple.”

“I’d hope so.” Seamus gestured to the offering in front of him. “Harry’s not much of a drinker, you know.”

“Seamus.” Harry warned.

Marco appeared undisturbed as he handed Seamus a shot glass. He waited until he had taken a sip before asking, “So, are you two fucking? Harry, here, has been pretty closed mouth about it, if you are.”

Seamus choked, but managed to finish his shot. “Me and Harry?” he exclaimed.

“Seamus and I go to, er, we – that is.....” Harry trailed off.

“What he’s trying to say,” Seamus supplied, as he reached for another, “is that Harry and I went to school together.”

“Hmm, I see.” Marco released his hold on Harry, only to draw his tongue across his own left forearm. “You ready for your turn, Harry?” he asked, the name rolling off of his tongue like water. He waited until Harry nodded before taking a pinch of salt and scattering it across his damp skin and thrusting his arm out. “Go on, then.”

Harry hesitated, as Marco popped a lime into his own mouth, while turning deftly toward him. “Go on, Harry,” he said around the sour fruit. “Do your worst.”

“Don’t you remember?” Seamus asked – his voice sounding tight to Harry. “Salt first, then tequila, and lime,” he offered. “You remember that night that Malfoy and Pavarti....”

Really not needing that image in his head Harry yielded to the pressure of fingers on his neck that drew him down. Unsure, he flicked his tongue over the bronzed skin once before taking a lingering taste. He glanced up over the top of his glasses to meet Marco’s expectant gaze. Lifting his head, he took the shot glass and bolted the tequila back in one go – the liquid burned, cutting a path straight to his groin.

Persuasive fingers pulled him close and Harry kissed once ghosting over Marco’s lime infused lips, almost seeking permission before tentatively deepening the kiss.

Marco’s heat seemed to stoke the burn of the alcohol as tongues tangled, or maybe it was the other way around. Eventually, Harry pulled away with the lime.

“Nice,” Marco praised as he leaned forward, drawing his tongue across Harry’s clavicle and then sprinkling him liberally with salt.

The next four shots went by faster than Harry thought possible – each one longer and lower than the one before, until Harry found himself sprawled, back against the wall, eye level with a zipper and a set of well-defined abs.

“Here, Finnigan,” Marco gasped out as Harry tentatively stroked his tongue just beneath the leather waistband. Harry could just make out the sound of the tray being pushed roughly to the other side of the table.

“Bu—“ Seamus protested.

“But nothing,” Marco cut him off mid-syllable. “Now take these back to that dirty blond over by the bar that you were dancing with earlier. He looks like he’s about to come in his pants as it is.”

Harry blushed, remembering for the first time since Marco’s arms had slid around his waist on the dance floor that he was in a public house.

“Go on, then!” Marco demanded, the arrogance in his voice rivaling that of Tom Riddle. “Harry and I are going for another dance, aren’t we, Harry?”

In the breadth of a heartbeat, Harry found himself out on the dance floor – his limbs a little less cooperative than they’d been the last time he was there. Stumbling, he glanced up to see Marco give him the once over and then raise his eyebrows in a manner so disturbingly Malfoy that Harry burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Marco demanded, sounding very much like someone who was used to getting his way.

“You remind me of someone at school,” Harry shouted, his lips grazing his Marco’s ear. “Er, I mean, from school,” he corrected.

“Good looking fellow, I take it?” Marco questioned, reaching back to smooth his unruly, yet fashionable, curls.

Throwing caution to the wind, Harry smiled. “Actually, he’s bloody gorgeous.”

“Really?” Marco cocked his head to one side before leaning in and kissing Harry’s nose, a warm, moist brush of butterfly wings. “Was he your lover?” he probed. “Or perhaps merely a secret crush?”

Harry choked off a laugh. “Hardly – he might have been easy on the eyes, but he was a right bloody wanker! In fact,” he added, not sure of what to make of Marco’s frown, “I rather hated him, now that you mention it!”

Marco smiled, somehow managing to look both amused and annoyed as he rolled his pelvis towards Harry’s, bringing their bodies together in a very different type of dance. “Be careful, Harry,” he warned as he turned Harry away from him. He whipped Dudley’s purloined belt from his own waist and looped it around Harry’s wrists, trussing him up like one of Hogwarts’ Christmas geese. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s a thin line between love and hate?”

Harry tugged half-heartedly at the make-shift bindings. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about,” he responded making another attempt to free himself from the old leather belt.

“I do,” Marco whispered, his voice taking on a dangerous tinge as the music sped up around them. “I do, indeed.”

With a quick jerk, Marco pulled him upright –his hands over his head—and held him there, using the belt as a pull.

“Hey!” Harry protested, only to have anything he might have said disappear as Marco laved his shoulder and loosed talented fingers across his sweaty abdomen. A heavy hand slid beneath the sagging waist of Dudley’s jeans, finding warm purchase atop his silk boxers –a gift from Hermione that when asked, she laughingly said brought out the color of his eyes.

“You surprise me, Harry,” Marco murmured, his teeth once again grazing the area beneath his ear. “Let’s get out of here.” A true bite broke vessels just below the skin and Harry, concentrating on the pain, said nothing as he was led – feeling very much like a Roman captive — off of the dance floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Deciding to go with it, instead of against it, Harry relaxed and allowed Marco to guide him down a dark corridor. Despite that he was very much a captive, there was something oddly freeing about giving someone else responsibility for a change –another luxury that he’d been denied, it seemed, his whole life.

The bright red door into the men’s loo opened, and two men, reeking of alcohol, sweat and spunk brushed past. Harry recoiled.

Men –so many men. Bare flesh –hard dicks, hands, mouths, tongues—doing things Harry had only heard about. Flesh slapping –sweaty flesh—and tongues doing things that seemed, well, just wrong, yet somehow not. He was revolted, yet fascinated.

Hesitating for just a moment, he took a deep breath and tried to regain his balance. If he couldn’t keep it together he’d never convince Marco he was experienced and not just some fresh faced virgin, who until the first swipe of Marco’s tongue against his shoulder, had just been ‘curious’.

As it was, it wasn’t going to be easy. When had anyone ever touched him when it hadn’t been a smack? Sure, his friends had shown him affection since he’d been at Hogwarts, but it had been nothing like this–but then again, who said that what he was about to do had anything to do with affection?

Marco shot him a look, almost as if he could see right through him. He stood there a long moment, before shoving Harry against the wall.

“Are you going to untie me?” Harry asked. For a moment he wasn’t sure that Marco heard him. “Marco?”

Marco took a step forward, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face. Without looking down, he unfastened Harry’s jeans and plunged one hand in –taking him by the balls.

“You want me to untie you,” he said, making it a statement rather than a question.

“Yes...” Harry couldn’t stop the moan that escaped from deep within him; he was hard. “...please.”

“Why?” Marco demanded; he searched Harry’s face, almost as if he were looking for something –something valuable, something important.

“I want...” Harry swallowed. “Please let me loose.”

Marco took a step back, eyeing Harry, from head to toe. 

Harry grimaced, only imagining what he must look like, arms tied, clothes undone. Even though he knew his wand was a mere word away, the vulnerability –the danger without the risk—made him tremble. 

“You’re awfully brave, aren’t you, Harry?” he asked, his voice holding a thinly veiled challenge. 

Letting out a shallow breath, Harry shook his head and admitted quietly, “Actually, I’m scared to death.”

Something in Marco’s countenance shifted and he took a step closer. Placing his hands on Harry’s chest, he leaned in and kissed him. “What will you do if I untie you?” he asked. He ran his hands up Harry’s arms, until their fingers tangled easily above the leather belt. “Will you run away?”

“No,” Harry promised, and leaned forward to initiate a kiss of his own. “I –I just want to touch you.”

Marco pulled back, but did not release his hands. “You want to touch me?”

Harry frowned. “Yes.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

As soon as Harry felt the restraint come loose, he buried his hands into Marco’s hair. He wrapped his fingers in the brunet curls and pulled Marco forward until their lips barely touched. 

By the time that Marco ended the kiss and pressed him back against the wall, Harry was not only achingly hard, he was embarrassingly hard. And he knew from his own experiences in his spell-muted bed that he wouldn’t last too much longer. ‘Way to go, Potter’, his Malfoy-conscience condemned hatefully. Harry’s face flamed and he damned himself for not having any more self-control. But, somehow, despite Harry’s best efforts, Marco seemed to know.

In fact, as if reading his befuddled brain, Marco’s features gentled even further, leaving his expression somehow at odds with the harshness of their surroundings. Without ridicule, his eyes signaled knowledge, compassion, and something else – something that made Harry want to blush that much more.

Harry –his mouth transfixed in an “O”—tried to look away as Marco dropped to his knees, but he found that he could not.

“I’m going to take the edge off, my beautiful Harry,” he whispered, all the while deftly freeing Harry from his jeans and boxers. “That’s all. We’ll go somewhere later, somewhere better. I promise. We’ll do it right.” 

Harry’s head slammed back against the wall as he felt the moist chuffing warmth at the tip of his cock. He gulped, looking down at practically every guilty fantasy he’d ever had. 

Marco’s warm wet mouth engulfed him and Harry cried out – unable to stop himself. Harry bit his lip, trying his best to keep motionless. ‘What had Seamus said about blowjobs? Don’t push?’

Marco pulled off, and Harry cried out with loss.

“You won’t hurt me, Harry.” His voice held a gentle reprimand, tinged by amusement. 

Harry closed his eyes. And soon he was lost in the sensation of Marco’s hands grasping his hips, rocking him gently, teaching him a rhythm.

“I’ll guide you,” Marco whispered, the vibration of his voice thrumming against Harry’s over-sensitized skin. “I won’t let you hurt me.” 

Harry whimpered at the lazy tongue swipe along his cock.

Marco reached up and nipped at the tender spot where Harry’s leg met his groin, causing Harry to cry out. 

Harry cracked open his eyes in time to see a man not five feet away sink balls deep into someone he had bent over a sink. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced aside the thought that this was a lousy place to lose one’s virginity. 

Then Marco swallowed him again, and there was no time to think. Harry could feel the pressure building inside of him, but just his he tried to warn Marco, he glanced to the door, eyes lighting on Seamus, who was standing in the doorway, face stricken.

Mortified, Harry came, pouring himself into the heat of a complete stranger, eyes locked, with one of his oldest friends.

“It’s okay, love.” Marco tucked him back in carefully before giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “Well, come on Finnigan,” he snapped, without pause, too engrossed, it appeared, in getting Harry dressed. “You have five minutes to collect your blond if you’re going with us,” he remarked. “Regardless...” He grabbed Harry’s hand possessively and steered him toward the door. “...Harry’s with me.”


	3. Chapter 3

The four-person black cab arrived outside the crowded club as soon as they’d breached the door. When Seamus moved to comment, Marco brushed it off as dumb luck. 

Marco slid in first, pulling Harry into his lap in an indecent sprawl.

Seamus and his new friend, Tom, sat opposite, trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore the way that Marco’s hands marked him, tweaking nipples and whatever else was in reach.

Doing his own level best to avoid Seamus’ curious eyes, Harry allowed himself to drift in Marco’s embrace. He tried not to think about what the blow job was going to cost him, but with Marco’s dick pressing hotly into his ass, it was all he could do to keep his mind from going back, unbidden, to what he’d seen in the bathroom. 

“You okay, Harry?” Seamus asked, his voice sounding far away from across the cab.

“Of course he is,” Marco answered for him, before leaning down and slurping on Harry’s neck, as if cleaning up any salt he might have missed the first time. 

Marco’s so-called ‘flat’ ended up being a four story semi-detached that made the Dursley’s house in Whinging look at a little like the little island shack that Hagrid had rescued him from some six and a half years back.

“Come along now.” Marco herded them ahead on the stairs, his hand resting on Harry’s hip. “You, Harry’s friend, take your new friend and head down the guestroom on the right. That’s right. There’s a wet bar under the telly, where you’ll find food and drink. There are also plenty of towels in the bathroom and you are welcome to help yourself to any of the robes or anything else you might need. But please don’t touch anything in the bathroom that doesn’t have a label, because my fath—me dad is an apothecary in London, so there’s no telling what you might find.” He paused, mid stroke against Harry’s side, his expression serious. “I have to ask that once you get settled that stay in your rooms once I set the alarm.”

“You, Harry,” he said as Seamus and Tom turned to go. “You go upstairs –all the way up. And if you’re expecting to sleep with me, you’d best be showered and changed by the time I get there.”

Somewhere down the darkened hall, someone choked.

“Why are you still here, Finnigan?” Marco questioned. “I thought you’d be halfway to heaven by now –get to bed.”

Seamus stepped back into the semi-lit landing. “I need to speak with my mate,” he said in a tone that surprisingly brooked no argument, despite the slight slur. “So why don’t you go see to your muggle tricks and leave us be for a moment?”

“Seamus!”

Marco took a single step back. “My what?” 

“Your alarm system,” Harry covered. “Seamus’ dad works for an alarm company –muggle is a...”

“....industry term, you know, jargon,” Seamus stammered. “I’ll just be a minute, go on. He’ll still be here when you get back.”

“Damn right he will.” Marco smirked, the warmth in his eyes belying the harshness of his expression. “Carry on then, but I warn you, Harry...” His tone softened, almost to that of a tease. “...this truly is the last time I want to see you in those dreadful jeans.”

Once they were alone, Seamus leaned close. “Are you sure? This house is so big that we could apparate out before anyone is the wiser.”

“But what about Tom?” Harry gestured down the hall. “Are you just going to leave him here?”

“I’m less worried about leaving Tom here than you with Marco. I mean, he’s a bit of a git, Harry. I’m not sure I like the way he touches you –it’s like he owns you or something.”

“He’s not so bad,” Harry defended, somehow unwilling to admit just how much he wanted to stay.

“No offense, mate, but you lost your status as an impartial observer about 45 minutes ago in the men’s loo.” Seamus looked away. “You know, I hate to say it, but he reminds me a little bit of Malfoy.”

“That’s rich, Seamus.” Harry couldn’t help himself. “Have you taken a look at poor Tom in there? He’s the spitting image.”

“I’m not the one in denial,” Seamus retorted. “But given the circumstances, I think I’d take looks over personality any day.”

Trying to digest what Seamus had just revealed Harry shook his head. “I want this, Seamus,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper in the cavernous space. “I mean, we’re wizards, what’s the worst thing that can happen to us?”

Seamus looked skeptical.

“Look, how many times have I faced Voldemort or, better yet, Voldemort and his army of death-eaters?” Harry demanded. “I hear what you’re saying, but I hardly think that one muggle is going to be that big of a deal.”

“But it’s not like your wand is exactly going to be at the ready, now is it?” 

Remembering the vanishing windows and broken goblets of his youth, not to mention the look on Uncle Vernon’s face as Aunt Marge floated away into the evening sky, Harry grinned. “Wand at the ready or no, Seamus, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, mate...” Seamus punched him gently. “...but yell if you come up against something you can’t handle.”

Harry forced a smile. “I think that goes without saying.” 

The fourth floor landing gave way to what had to be the master suite. ‘So, Seamus has a secret taste for Slytherins. Ron would kill him if he knew,’ Harry mused as he skirted the monstrous bed and made his way into bathroom, which was decorated in what looked like real marble. Harry reached out tentatively to touch the hand towels; his fingers disappeared in the luxurious cotton.

The tiled floor snaked around an inlaid tub, revealing a winding path to an enclosed space that was undoubtedly a shower. 

Glancing at himself in the mirrored walls, Harry toed off his shoes and socks, before discarding the much hated cast-offs without bothering to undo the clasp. The coarse material fell silently to the swirling tile, looking as out of place as Harry himself. 

Hating the sight of his adolescent body, Harry slipped off his glasses and laid them carefully on the smooth expanse of counter before shucking off Hermione’s Christmas present. Taking a deep breath, he rounded the tub, only to come to a complete standstill.

The shower room, a cathedral in tile, spanned the wall, hosting no less than ten shower heads, all coming out at different heights and angles. Harry stepped in gingerly, closing the door behind him. The shower was nearly the size of the Gryffindor locker room, he noted ironically, and twice as nice.

Wondering about what kind of person Marco was –or at least what kind of person his father was—Harry reached for the knob and gave it a tentative twist. Within seconds, hot torrents buffeted his body, the water biting into his skin like a lover...or lovers. Glancing up at the trio of heads above, he doubted that anyone –other than himself of course—had ever showered in here alone. 

Pushing aside the thought (that was both thrilling and petrifying) that Marco might join him once he was sure that Seamus and Tom were abed, Harry reached for the soap, grateful for the opportunity to wash away the memory of the grime of the bathroom, the scent of the smoke and the spunk somehow having grown even stronger in the steam of the shower. The gel, from a bottle picked randomly from many, was slick in his palms and smelled a little like Christmas.

Harry ran soapy hands over his limbs, letting his mind wander back to the first feel of Marco’s lips on his flesh. He fingered his cock lazily, knowing that it wouldn’t take much for him to be ready again. He could already feel the blood pooling heavy beneath the skin, his flesh firming and warming beneath his fingers. 

‘Regardless, Harry’s with me.’

Harry shivered, turning slightly so his hip caught the spray full force, the water teasing his ass. 

‘And if you’re expecting to sleep with me, you’d best be showered and changed by the time I get there.’ 

Remembering Marco’s haughty words, the thought occurred that he really might be waiting for him on the other side of the door. If he were, would the light be on? Would he be waiting, naked, or would he be waiting to be undressed?

Harry could almost see it now, as he reached for another one of the decorative bottles, this one labeled ‘shampoo’, and turned into the jet stream. Massaging his scalp, Harry imagined stripping Marco, trailing his tongue down his stomach, and taking him into his mouth the way that he, himself, had been taken. 

With just that mental image Harry’s cock twitched and he gasped out loud. Unable to wait any longer, Harry rinsed quickly before shutting down the decadent shower and stepping outside on the cool tile. He shivered, his skin breaking out in goose bumps.

Ignoring the pile of lavish bath towels, he reached, instead, for one of the emerald bathrobes, which were actually not that dissimilar from his Quidditch robe. Trying not to think about school, or anything else for that matter, he shook the water out of his hair, grabbed his glasses, and returned to the bedroom that was practically pitch black.

“Marco?”

A hand came out of no where to brush Harry’s cheek. “I’m here.”

“I, I—” Harry jumped. “I can’t see you.”

“Do you need to?”

Marco heat warmed him through the inky darkness. Then, without warning, Marco clapped, causing the room to glow. He stood there smirking. “My father’s version of seduction,” he remarked, throwing a careless wave towards the subdued lighting. “Is it working?”

Harry tried not to blush, but he knew it was one battle he was destined to lose. 

Marco, too, was dressed in of the one of the heavy robes; his, a velvety black that would have made Snape weep with envy. However, unlike Harry’s, which was wrapped tight to keep out the cold, Marco’s robe was open.

Harry tried to look away, but Marco moved closer still, distracting him, his hand outstretched. Harry’s throat tightened and his eyes prickled. Feeling all of 13 –if that—he cringed when he heard himself whisper. “I’ve never done anything like this with a bloke before...or even a girl for that matter.” 

Harry looked down at the floor and prayed that somehow a portkey would materialize. He wouldn’t even mind being dumped at Voldemort’s feet. “I mean, I came out with Seamus because I was...” He coughed.“...curious.” He knew his face was scarlet. “I’m sorry, but...” Harry licked his lips. “...but I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

The wait was excruciating. In the silence, Harry steeled himself for the worst. He nearly leapt out of his skin when a gentle hand cupped his face and lifted until he was forced to meet eyes that were the color of mocha. 

“Supposed to?” Marco’s lips ghosted his. “There is no supposed to, Harry. Only want.” He smiled reassuringly. “You’re to do what you want to do. Do you want, Harry?”

Harry nodded, before kissing back, afraid that he was pushing too hard or that his mouth was too wet.

“Then what a gift you would give me.”

Harry moaned as Marco took his mouth in another soft kiss. 

“And how courageous of you to tell me the truth,” Marco continued, his lips brushing Harry’s with each word. 

‘Ever the Gryffindor, eh, Potter?’ Harry’s inner voice chimed in. Determined not to let thoughts of Malfoy ruin this, Harry screwed up his purported courage and reached out, pulling Marco’s hips to his, causing them to both groan. 

“Let me teach you.” Marco murmured against his throat. “I can show you things that you’ve only imagined.”

Harry cried out as Marco licked and then nipped the shell of his ear; deft hands slid down his back, cupping his ass, stoking and pulling. Heart beating nearly out of his chest, he questioned, quite seriously, if he was going to survive. 

“So what did you think of the shower?” Marco asked, derailing his train of thought.

“Uh, uh, I...” Harry wondered when, exactly, he’d turned into a Hufflepuff. “I thought maybe—“

Marco raised a questioning brow, before reaching to Harry’s waist and loosing the messy knot.

“Ithoughtmaybeyouwouldhavejoinedme.” 

“In the shower?” Marco questioned, trailing his hand down Harry’s front, parting the heavy material. “That wouldn’t have done at all.”

“But,” Harry worried his lower lip. “Why not?”

Marco’s hands slid back around to tease his ass, one finger sliding maddeningly between his cheeks. 

Harry shivered. 

“Too much temptation, that, I am afraid,” Marco sighed. “There’s no way I could have been gentle there, my love, with all that naked boy flesh just begging to be taken against the wall, no. You’re not the shower type, Harry...” Marco smirked and Harry realized that he’d never view a smirk in quite the same way again. “...at least not yet.” 

Not giving Harry time to respond, Marco guided him to bed and pushed him down across it once his legs hit the edge of the mattress. “Just relax.”

Harry swallowed. “So?” he managed to ask, as Marco lowered himself until their flesh met, neck to knee, for the first time. “If I’m not shower mat –material, then, then what am I?”

“Picnics, barbies, walks on the beach.” 

Harry smiled. 

“Moonlight, roses, strawberries, champagne.” Marco dropped a gentle kiss on Harry’s nose. “That’s right, Harry, relax. I won’t hurt you.”

“You won’t?”

“Never.” With that single word, Marco began his slow descent, probing touches and moist kisses –slurping noises that made Harry’s bones dissolve, yet made other parts of him ache with want. 

“Mar--!”

“Shh,” Marco soothed, reaching up with one hand to touch his lips. “Let me, Harry,” he implored, his voice almost plaintive. “Just let me.”

Warm kisses alternated with sharp nips into the meat of his thigh, the skin of his scrotum. Harry gasped, almost passing out as Marco sucked one of his balls entirely into his mouth, his finger stroking the tight piece of skin stretching from his sac to his arsehole.

“That’s right, Harry,” Marco murmured, his tongue bestowing the faintest caress before heading even further south.

“Bloody hell!” Harry panted as Marco’s tongue slid across a part of Harry’s body that he, himself, had never even seen, let alone touched. Harry pulled away.

Strong hands gripped his hips, tugging him back. “You said you’d let me,” Marco purred, his throat vibrating against Harry’s skin. “Do you have any idea how delicious you are?”

Harry’s cock leapt at the words, even as the rest of him recoiled. 

“No, I didn’t –I mean, I don’t!” Harry wiggled away, his face flaming. “I can’t –it’s too....” He faltered. “...it’s too close. It’s too personal. I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Marco dismissed. “It’s okay, Harry.” He swiped his tongue, once again, against Harry’s quivering opening. “Would you like this better?” 

Harry closed his eyes as Marco’s mouth returned to the head of his cock. Unable to speak, he reached down to caress Marco’s face, the skin too soft and the bones too delicate beneath his clumsy fingertips. 

“Hmm?” Marco asked, his tongue teasing the slit; his fingers, also slick, toyed with the place his tongue had just abandoned. 

Harry whimpered as one long digit breached his body and Marco went all the way down.

Seeing stars, Harry balled his hands into the plush bed clothes. He arched his back, consideration be damned.

“That’s right, Harry!” Marco encouraged, his lips caressing the strong vein that wrapped the length of Harry’s cock. “You fuck me, Harry, you go right ahead.”

Casting off the last of his self-control, Harry pumped his hips. He realized, with no real sense of loss, that it could never be this way—that he could never be this way—with a girl.

“I want you to give me everything....” Marco’s teeth grazed Harry’s cock, mirroring the now easy slide of his fingers in and out of Harry’s body. With no warning, he hit that spot Seamus was always going on about –it had to be.

“Holy!” Harry exclaimed. The only thing that kept him from coming right then was the death grip that Marco has fastened around the base of shaft. 

“Not yet.” Retracting his other fingers, Marco slithered up Harry’s body until he could once again claim his mouth –claim him.

“But—“

“Don’t be so impatient,” Marco admonished, his tongue, once again, tattooing lazy circles up and down the length of Harry’s neck. “You’re too close. I need you to last.”

“But why...” Harry faltered. “Does it matter?” 

“It matters.” Marco’s eyes flashed a disconcerting grey, his gaze the color of molten frost. “Don’t ever push me away, Harry.” 

Harry pulled back. “Huh?”

“Promise me.” Marco leaned forward, pushing his tongue into Harry’s mouth. “Promise me, Harry. Promise me.”

“I—” Harry threaded his fingers through brunet curls and pulled Marco down into another kiss. “I promise,” he whispered. “I promise.”

As if he’d been waiting for permission of some sort, Marco pulled himself away, and then rocked back until he was planted between Harry’s thighs, his heavy cock, hot to the touch, nudging Harry’s sac.

Feeling exposed, Harry tensed and then reached down to cover himself, only to have Marco intercept his hand, lean down and place a butterfly kiss just beneath Harry’s navel. 

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

“But—but I’m ready!” Harry protested, thinking of how Marco’s tongue had felt against his flesh. Even now, he could feel the slickness there. “But—then why did you?”

“That was for you...” Marco took Harry’s trembling shaft by the hand, before scampering up and holding it in place at his own surprisingly well lubricated opening. “This is for me.” 

Time slowed as Harry watched Marco sink down, impaling himself –head thrown back and stomach muscles taut, holding himself upright. He gasped not only at the sight, but also the grip of Marco’s body, so intense that it hurt. Unbidden, tears pricked Harry’s eyes, and leaked out onto his cheeks that felt feverishly hot. 

“Move, Harry,” Marco urged even as he lifted himself up and sank back down –the tight heat of him searing, freeing. “Go on, then.” 

Not quite sure he even knew what that meant, or let alone how to do it, Harry lifted up cautiously. It didn’t take him long, however, to find a rhythm. Relaxing his remaining inhibitions, Harry pushed up and into the body above him, angling his hips side to side.

In many ways it was like flying; the adrenalin coursing through him just like that first time in Madam Hooch’s class when he took off after Malfoy without knowing a damn thing. 

‘Always Malfoy,’ he admitted. Hermione had been right. He had been an idiot then. Perhaps he still was. Trying to push aside his traitorous thoughts, Harry grabbed Marco’s hips, urging him to go faster. 

Knocking him away, Marco took one of Harry’s hands and wrapped it around his cock instead. “Touch me, Harry,” he commanded –his voice regal beneath the ragged pant. “Destroy me,” he muttered, leaning close, biting Harry’s cheek hard enough to mark. “Shatter me,” he continued, guiding Harry’s hand up and down his own leaking flesh, forcing Harry to match the thrusts of his hips point for point. 

Harry could feel Marco’s lips against his neck; he could hear his laughter, tinged with the barest trace of what sounded like bitterness.

“I dare you.”

Something about the school yard taunt affected him in a way that he was afraid tender entreaties never would. Picking up the gauntlet, Harry quickened his strokes, deepening his thrusts. 

Frustrated by his inability move against the slick material, or to find that place inside Marco that had made him cry out loud, Harry pushed himself up, flipping them both over. The look on Marco’s face was priceless and Harry found himself laughing as he pinned the older man beneath him.

Ceding defeat, Marco wrapped one leg around Harry’s waist and slung the other one over his shoulder. And, then, with a look that assured that he was right where he’d wanted to be all along, Marco pulled himself up to kiss Harry again, trapping Harry’s hand between them in the process.

Harry only managed five more thrusts before the room and everything in it flew apart. He cried out in both pleasure and frustration, clutching blindly and realizing what Marco meant about not wanting to be pushed away.

Dazed, he barely heard Marco’s own answering passion; but there was no mistaking the near painful shuddering around Harry’s own orgasm-wracked flesh when Marco came. 

Harry found himself wrapped up in Marco’s fevered embrace. The man whispered nonsense words into his hair and then some that, given the circumstances, Harry couldn’t comprehend. Feeling somewhat hypocritical, Harry wondered if Marco, too, had been thinking of someone else. Though, it seemed unlikely given Marco’s proclivity to call him by name.

Marco touched his scar reverently with his lips. “Pity,” he whispered, his words muffled against Harry’s cheek. “I think I could have loved you.” 

“Sorry?” Harry asked, pulling away. 

“It’s nothing, Harry.” Marco yawned, running his palms down Harry’s back, from shoulders to waist. “Sweet dreams –that’s all.”

“Well...” Suddenly overcome with melancholy, Harry tilted his head back and kissed the underside of Marco’s chin. Keeping his concerns to himself, he nuzzled back down, until he was nose to nipple. “...goodnight then.”

“Was it a good night?” Marco asked, his words distorted with a yawn.

“Good?” Harry smiled contentedly. “It was brilliant.”


	4. Chapter 4

The hours of the night passed in a haze of passionate exchange. Harry slept, only to find himself awakened by lips, teeth, fingers, or tongue. He gave his first blowjob under a cover of unmitigated darkness, horrified, unsure, yet elated and empowered at the same time. Tears once again graced his cheeks the first time Marco entered him –the weight of the man’s body deceptively light on his back just before he started to move.

Harry awoke to a lighter shade of darkness, daylight stealing in around tightly pulled blinds. Bits and pieces of the previous night penetrated his foggy brain, and with some embarrassment, he cast a glance over at the man with whom he shared a bed.

Harry blinked.

In the low light, Marco seemed different –less physically imposing, though no less appealing. The handsome Mediterranean features seemed sharper somehow, at odds with the warm hue of the skin. 

Head full of cotton, Harry closed his eyes and tried again. There was a ringing in his ears that he couldn’t quite place and his skin itched. 

“I think you should leave.”

Harry started. “Marco?”

Marco opened his eyes slowly and reached out to caress Harry’s thigh beneath the luxurious sheets. “You should go.”

“But—“ Harry closed his eyes, then sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. 

“It’s not you, Harry....” Marco’s hand lingered against his back. “You need to leave.”

“I heard you the first time!” Harry snapped, his head throbbing now that he was vertical. His ears were buzzing, interfering with his ability to think. Rubbing his eyes, he heard Marco sit –the rustling of the sheets too loud in the otherwise silence of the room.

Not sure why he was feeling so strange, Harry turned to look at Marco, seeking answers.

Marco was facing the wall, the skin of his back, eerily pale in the morning light, was marred by an elaborate tattoo, at least three centimeters in height, if not four. It was a snake — green with silver eyes — its body slender, coiled. How Harry had missed it, before, was anyone’s guess.

As Harry took in the artwork before him, the snake turned – literally — and winked.

The next five minutes were a blur. 

“You’re a — “

“Get out, Potter!”

“Harry!” Seamus called from just beyond the door. “There are wards in the kitchen!”

If asked, Harry wouldn’t have been able to describe the melee that followed –Marco’s malevolent stare, the ugly accusations, the wordless affirmations, the frantic donning of clothes, the hasty retreat from the house and into the nearby underground, and Seamus’ awkward farewell to Tom.

Ignoring Seamus’ constant chatter about waiting for the Knight Bus, Harry found a quiet spot behind a deserted Knickerbox, where they apparated to Hogsmead undetected. It wasn’t until they were halfway back to Hogwarts that Harry felt like he could breathe, let alone acknowledge his housemate’s steady stream of questions.

“Bloody hell,” Seamus gasped, collapsing on the grass alongside the well worn path. “So, do you think he was a wizard?”

Harry shot his companion a look revealing just how stupid the question was. “Well, let’s see, Seamus, weren’t you the one that woke everyone up screaming about wards in the kitchen?” 

“Well, I thought they were wards,” Seamus admitted. “There was definitely magic there – I could feel it as soon as I woke up.”

“Me, too,” Harry agreed. “Though, truth be told, I thought maybe I was just hung over.”

“You did drink a right lot, mate.”

Harry shrugged. “Apparently too much, because, yes, I think he was definitely a wizard.” 

In halting sentences, Harry described what he’d seen. 

“So who do you think it was then?” Seamus asked.

Harry shot him a withering look. “Who do you think I think it was?”

“You think it was Malfoy?” Seamus asked, giving voice to Harry’s deepest fear. 

“I don’t know,” Harry groaned. “But I don’t know who else it would have been. But then again, if it had been, I would have thought things would have gone down a bit differently, you know?”

Seamus cocked his head to one side, squinting against the sun. “So you fucked him, then?”

Harry looked away. 

“But why?” Seamus asked. “If it was Malfoy, why would he do that? Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was just some other Slytherin! Just because he had a silver-eyed snake on his back doesn’t mean it was Malfoy.”

Harry took a deep breath, part of him wanting very much to believe his friend was right.

“I mean,” Seamus began again, “come on, Harry. All Slytherins are gits. Maybe he just reminded you of Malfoy?

Harry did a quick roll call of the physical characteristics all the other Slytherins currently at Hogwarts and was doubtful, but then his traitorous mind offered up the image of Tom Riddle –the aristocratically good looking boy that he’d been before ever becoming the vile creature that was Lord Voldemort. He shook his head, not willing to go there. 

Instead he thought about all of the soft kisses and gentle touches Marco had bestowed on him and tried to picture Malfoy in his place. He couldn’t do it. “Do you really think that it wasn’t Malfoy?” Harry asked. “I mean, he –he was awfully ni –nice to me.” He bit his lip, embarrassed, knowing full well that Seamus knew, first hand, just how nice Marco had been.

“Exactly.” Seamus punched Harry’s shoulder. “Can you really see Draco Malfoy kneeling on that floor? In front of you – of all people?”

Harry smiled, though his lower lip trembled at the effort. “You’re right, Seamus.”

“Of course I am,” Seamus agreed, slinging his arm across Harry’s shoulder and steering him back towards the village. “Now let’s go get a Butterbeer and a bit of breakfast, while we wait for Dean and Neville.”

Harry pulled back in alarm. “What?”

“Dean and Neville,” Seamus repeated. “They’re meeting us at the Three Broomsticks, remember? Though I doubt they’ll be there for a couple of hours, yet, given it’s just now ten.”

Harry pulled away. “Uhm, I think –I can’t.”

“What’s the matter, Harry?”

“I—“ Harry swallowed and took a deep breath before continuing. “I don’t think I’m up to the firing squad just yet, Seamus. So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just head back to Hogwarts on my own.”

Seamus cocked his head to one side. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, mate. So you fucked some guy that you met at the bar. Even if he was a wizard — hell, even if he was bloody Malfoy —what’s done is done. Besides, if you think you’ll get off any easier with Ron and Hermione, I think that you’re sorely mistaken.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on heading to the common room, now was I?”

“Where, then?”

“Thought I might go flying,” Harry answered. “You know, clear my head.”

Seamus grinned. “Well, all I can say is that if you can still sit a broom, you haven’t that much to be embarrassed about, now have you?”

Harry’s cheeks heated. “I guess not. But, still, you won’t say anything to Dean and Neville will you?”

“Nah.” Seamus leaned forward. “I‘ll keep them distracted with tales of Tom.”

Harry grinned despite himself, having forgotten, in all of his own drama, about Seamus’ Malfoy-doppelganger. “Tales?” he questioned. “As in more than one?”

“Oh yes, Harry.” This time it was Seamus who colored. “All I have to say is that no matter what you find out about Marco, I’ll never look at Draco Malfoy the same way again, that’s for damn sure.”

Harry shook his head, trying not to let that image take root either. “So, what say I meet you at the portrait at 5:00, after I’ve sorted things out?”

“Sure thing.” Seamus touched his arm again, his fingers lingering over Dudley’s rumpled shirt. “Five o’clock it is and don’t you worry, your secrets – as in more than one,” he said, throwing Harry’s words back into his face, “are safe with me.”


	5. Chapter 5

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
5:03 p.m., Gryffindor Common Room

“Harry!” Ron exclaimed, sounding strangely relieved as the portrait door closed behind them. “Make her get rid of it!” He pointed at Hermione’s ankle, his nose shriveling in disgust. “Truth be told, the bloody thing creeps me out!”

“Get rid of what?” Harry crossed the common room quickly and threw himself down in one of the overstuffed chairs opposite his two best friends.

Hermione stuck her foot out and shifted her robes, revealing her ankle. In the space of a second, a butterfly fluttered by, staying too close to the skin to be real.

“Crikey!” Harry leaned up to get a closer look. “Is that a tattoo?” he asked, his stomach lurching dangerously. “Where’d it come from?’

“Thank you,” Hermione responded smugly, shooting Ron a glance, obviously misunderstanding Harry’s interest as envy. “If Ron would just grow up, he could have had one too!”

Ron scowled. “I don’t want one. And I’m not sure why you do.”

Harry reached out and touched her pale skin, causing the butterfly to change course. “Come on Hermione,” he probed, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice, “where’d you get it?”

Hermione laid her book across her chest and pulled her foot back, to tuck it securely beneath her robe. “Pansy Parkinson gave them out last night at the prefects' meeting.”

This time Harry’s stomach plummeted to the ground.

“You know...” Hermione frowned. “...as part of the house unity that Dumbledore’s promoting. She and Malfoy had been working on the charm for ages.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t have one!” Ron interjected.

“Oh, grow up, Ron!” Hermione snapped, apparently having had this conversation more than once. “She even offered to make you a lion for Gryffindor!”

“Yeah and it would have probably bitten me in my sleep –you can just bet that that bastard Malfoy has a snake!”

Seamus started and Harry shot him a look that could have felled an oak. “What do you mean, Ron? He didn’t show it off?”

“Nah.” Ron shook his head. “The bloody git wasn’t even there.”

“He sent word through Pansy that something had come up and he was needed at home,” Hermione supplied. “Pansy wasn’t at all pleased that he wasn’t there to share their triumph. She has a little dragon you know –‘for Draco, of course,’ she mimicked, catching the pure blood girl’s aristocratic tone perfectly.

Ron rolled his eyes, and then turned back to Harry, his expression intent. “So, enough about us and that god awful tattoo,” he segued roughly. “How did you two get on then? Still curious, Harry?”

“Shut it, Ron,” Harry growled.

“No, actually Ron...” Seamus’ laughter filled the air. “...I think our Harry, here, has it all figured out!”

 

7:28 p.m., Gryffindor Tower, 7th Year Boys’ Dorm

“So, Harry?”

Harry lifted his head reluctantly and nodded for Ron to enter.

“About what Seamus said?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Harry questioned, determined to make Ron spell it out. If he wanted to know, then he was bloody well going to have to ask.

“You know,” Ron hedged. “Did you figure it out?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugged. “I guess so.”

“So...” Ron sat down on his bed, facing Harry. “...did you meet some bloke?”

Harry nodded, wondering if he should confide his suspicions – now, thanks to that ridiculous tattoo of Hermione’s, his certainties — about Marco cum Malfoy.

“Well...” Ron lay down on the bed, his eyes glued to Harry’s face expectantly. “...spill already. How was it?”

Surprised that Ron, of all people, was so interested, Harry frowned. “What do you mean, ‘how was it?’”

Ron shrugged and his mouth twisted awkwardly. “Not so much how was it, but, I mean, did you like it?”

Harry grinned despite his misgivings. “Yeah, I did.”

“So how far did you go?” 

“Ron!”

“Come on Harry!” Ron exclaimed, obviously willing to overlook the whole sex-with-a-guy factor in favor of the sheer fact that Harry might have had sex. “I’d tell you!”

“And face Hermione’s wrath?” Harry questioned, not that he had any interest whatsoever in his two best friends did when they were alone.

“Then, just tell me one thing,” Ron countered. “Please?”

Harry sighed. “Okay, but just one.”

“Did you actually...” Ron squinted. “...get off?”

“Ron!”

“Har-ry!”

“Yes!” Harry nearly shouted back. “Yes, I did. Are you happy now?”

“Oh man.” Ron sighed. “Did he blow you or just use his hand?”

“That’s two,” Harry pointed out, “and quite possibly three.”

“Come on!” Ron sat up and leaned forward. “Did he – the first?”

Harry bit his lip and nodded.

“Was it any good?’

“Any good?” Harry’s lip trembled. “It was fantastic. Unfortunately, though, it may be a bit more complicated than that.”

“Why?” Ron questioned, concern sketched clearly in his expressive face. “What happened?”

“I’m not positively sure.” Harry rocked back on his bed and tucked his feet underneath, wrapping his arms around his knees. “When I woke, things were...” He hesitated, knowing that anything that he could possibly say would send his friend running. “...strange.”

“You spent the whole night with him?” Ron exclaimed. “Way to go, you dog! What’s this bloke’s name anyway? What did he look like?”

“His name was Marco,” Harry began, and then went on to describe his mysterious lover and their encounter at the bar. He purposefully left out what happened in the men’s loo and a good deal of what followed after. “But when I got up, he looked different.”

Ron laughed. “So, I take it you were drinkin’ then?”

“That wasn’t it,” Harry denied, wondering if he could possibly make this easier. “This morning, he – Marco — seemed smaller, paler. His hair looked lighter, like a dirty blond instead of brunet.” He frowned. “But that’s not the worst of it,” he admitted. “When I woke – well, I mean, after we, you know, I was feeling strange. I thought maybe that I was just hung over, but once I really woke up, I realized that what I was feeling was...” Harry licked his lips. “...magic.”

“Magic?”

“Yeah. And I think he knew I knew that something was up and he told me I had to leave.”

“Do you think he was a wizard, then?”

“Yeah,” he admitted; the three words ending in ‘Potter’ that Marco had hurled at him in the morning shadows rang in his ears mockingly. “In fact, I’m almost positive.”

Ron looked as worried as Harry felt. “Do you think he recognized you?”

“Well, let’s see,” Harry snapped. “He was calling me ‘Harry’ all night and he tongued my scar. What do you think?”

The redhead’s face turned not an entirely complementary color. “Bloody hell, Harry,” he murmured. “If you’re right, this could be all over The Daily Prophet!”

“Or at least all over the Great Hall,” Harry muttered, cursing his own stupidity.

“Huh?”

Taking a deep breath, Harry decided that Ron would be better off hearing it from him, rather than as a whisper passed along by a bunch of interfering Ravenclaws. “I didn’t tell you, but as I was getting dressed, I noticed something about Marco that I hadn’t previously. He had something on his back.”

“What was it?”

Harry closed his eyes. “It was a tattoo...” He paused meaningfully. “...of a snake.”

Ron frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“He had an emerald green snake on his back, with silver markings and grey eyes...” Harry looked at his best friend and tried to keep his resolve. “It winked at me.”

Ron recoiled as if he’d been struck. “A snake? With grey eyes? Harry – that means it was probably.........Malfoy?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But – but — ” Ron stammered. “But how? Why?”

“As for how, I think that he – if it was him — must have used a glamour spell, because there’s no way Polyjuice potion would last that long. I think it must have been fading by morning, which is why he looked different.” Harry shrugged. “As for why...” he trailed off. “I have no idea.”

“Are you sure?” Ron leaned further towards Harry, until Harry was afraid that he was going to fall off the bed. “I mean, maybe you were just imagining things.”

“No,” Harry glanced away. “Despite what Seamus would have me believe, there were too many similarities for it to have been anyone else.”

Ron looked puzzled. “And you did it anyway?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted to his oldest and, if truth were to be told, first friend, hoping against hope that he would forgive, even if he didn’t understand. “Yes, yes I did. And you know what the sad thing is, Ron?”

Ron shook his head, obviously having a hard time believing there was just one.

“I actually thought that he – Marco — wanted me, for me.” Harry laughed bitterly, dashing away a spot of moisture on his cheek. “And it was just a trick – just one of Malfoy’s stupid pranks — and I fell for it.”


	6. Chapter 6

7:47 a.m., the Great Hall

The following morning, Harry walked into the Great Hall, flanked by Hermione and Ron and trailed by Seamus, Dean, and Neville. He glanced over at the Slytherin table, only to find Malfoy, head buried in The Daily Prophet.

Given that no one was staring, he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. 

“So far so good, eh, mate?” Ron whispered as they all swung into their respective seats. “If it was him and he’d said anything, don’t you think we’d be able to tell?”

“Just because he hasn’t, yet, doesn’t mean he won’t.” Hermione reached for the jam. “Really, Harry, if it was him, he has you well and truly. You do realize that don’t you? If I were him, I’d make you sweat.”

“Gee, thanks, Hermione.” Harry pushed his plate away. “I think I just lost my appetite.”

“I’m just saying...” Hermione took a bite of raspberry slathered toast. “...that if I were you, I would go talk to him.”

“Are you mental?” Ron asked, attacking his oatmeal as if it were Malfoy’s head. “The last thing in the world that Harry needs to do is spend any more time alone with that git, isn’t that right, Harry?”

“Uhm...” Harry glanced over to the Slytherin table, where Malfoy, at that moment, looked up and raised his eyebrows in that infuriating manner, before turning back to the paper. Harry jolted with the familiarity of it. “...yeah, I mean – what did you say?”

Hermione sighed loudly. “Really, Harry, this is serious!”

“Well,” Seamus spoke up around a mouthful of cereal. “It’s not like he can incriminate Harry without implicating himself, now can he? I mean, as me dad used to say, ‘it takes two to tango.’”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, “but no one cares who Malfoy shags. Hell, he’d probably bugger anything with two legs if given the chance and probably has for that matter.”

“True.” Seamus nodded. “He did look like he knew what he was doing.”

Harry could feel the blood rushing to his face. Before he consciously processed the thought, he was on his feet, pushing away from the table. 

“Where are you going?” Hermione demanded.

“I’m not hungry.” Harry glanced over to where he was being studiously ignored by the one person whose attention he’d always had. “I’ll see you in Charms.”

“Wait a minute, Harry!” Ron called just as he reached the double doors. “Charms was cancelled, don’t forget. We’ve got double potions with...” He trailed of and glanced over at Draco, who was still engrossed in his paper, with unease. “...Slytherin.”

‘Great.’ If Harry had been closer to the wall, he would have bashed his head against it. Instead, he took off at a run, his shoes echoing dully down the deserted hallways.

 

2:00 p.m. sharp, Dungeons, Potions Classroom

Snape swept into the dungeons, scowling. 

“Today,” he began, “we will be attempting to brew a binding potion. This is a very difficult task and can only be successfully accomplished if the potion is prepared with utmost meticulousness and precision. When correctly brewed, the potion is the most extraordinary puce. Therefore, I have no doubt that I will at the end of the day be faced with a rainbow of colors ranging from buttercup to mud.” 

He came to rest at the front of the room and waved his hand to reveal a long list of ingredients and an even longer list of instructions. 

“Given the complexity of this task and the need to promote inter-house unity...” He sneered menacingly. “...this will be a mixed house endeavor. However, unlike previous occasions where it was my unpleasant duty to pair you up, today you will have the pleasure of sealing your own fate. Mr. Malfoy,” he snapped without drawing a breath, “as prefect of Slytherin, you may select your partner first.”

Harry groaned, shooting Ron a look of near desperation. Just as he reached for his books, thinking surely that this was it, Malfoy spoke, his voice steady, if uncharacteristically quiet.

“I’ll take Longbottom.”

The room gasped, including Snape, who managed to cover his shock with an ugly scowl. 

“Are you feeling particularly generous today, Mr. Malfoy,” he asked slowly as he came to a halt in front of his favorite student, “or merely suicidal?”

Malfoy smiled in a manner so mild that, to the uninitiated, he might have almost appeared angelic. “If I am to follow your excellent example, Professor,” he began without a trace of sarcasm, “I must learn not only to work with the most talented, but the most challenged as well, is that not the case?"

Ron sniggered, his voice carrying a decibel too loud in the dungeon that was otherwise shrouded in hush: “So it looks like the Slytherin bastard isn’t following in the grease ball’s footsteps after all, eh, Harry?”

Snape whirled around, fixing Harry with an icy glare. “Twenty points from Gryffindor,” he stated coolly, “for interrupting class. Ten points to Mr. Malfoy for his inherent....” He shot Neville a look of such loathing that that the fumbling boy dropped his cauldron. “...forbearance. Granger,” he said sharply, letting his gaze rove slowly, dismissively, across the Gryffindor side without meeting anyone’s eyes, “name your poison.”

Hermione shot up, grabbing her books. Without even sparing a glance for Slytherin’s head of house, she cocked her head defiantly. “I’ll take Crabbe.”

“Well, well...” Snape’s lip curled in what was not quite a smile, but possibly the closest a Gryffindor was ever going to get. “...five points for Ms. Granger’s inability to let anyone look better than herself – quite the Slytherin trait, Ms. Granger. Ms. Parkinson?”

“In keeping with the charitable tradition started by our dear Draco...” Pansy turned and smiled sweetly –sweetly, that is, like saccharine. “...I’ll take Potter.”

“Weasley?” Snape asked, cutting off Ron’s grunt of protest.

Ron sighed, defeat evident. “I’ll take Goyle.”

“Zabini?”

“Finnigan.”

“Thomas?” 

And so on.

Even as he slid behind the bench, where he’d be spending the next two hours with Slytherin’s other prefect, Harry was unable to keep his eyes straying two benches ahead. Malfoy and Neville sat side by side, heads bowed close.

Unlike the times that he’d been assigned to work with Malfoy and found himself bundled off to the supply closet with little more than a glance, it seemed that Neville was getting a crash course in binding potions. Harry watched in amazement as Malfoy shook his head, snagged Neville’s parchment, and started marking what had to be corrections in the margins.

Neville, gaping a little like a sucker fish, glanced over at Malfoy and smiled. Harry had to bite his tongue as Malfoy smiled back and then motioned Neville towards the closet, before getting up to follow.

Harry’s quill snapped in his hands; the point landed unceremoniously in Pansy’s ink. Tiny indigo droplets flew into her face.

“Potter, you imbecile!” she shrieked, even as she cast a cleaning charm with less effort than it would have taken to swat a fly. “What are you waiting for, anyway? Why haven’t you gotten the ingredients? We haven’t all day!”

By the time that Harry made it to the back of the classroom, Malfoy and Neville were coming out of the supply closet. Harry’s eyes widened. Malfoy was carrying half of the supplies –granted, the combustible half—and murmuring something about the theory behind the potion. 

“Do you mean, like in Herbology....?” Neville whispered as they passed.

Malfoy side stepped Harry neatly, without as much as a glance in his direction. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, “you’re the botanist, Longbottom, not me.”

The next two hours passed in a blur. Torn between trying to follow Pansy’s steady stream of commands and stealing covert looks at the Malfoy/Longbottom bench, Harry was exhausted.

Throughout the class, Malfoy had continued to speak in low tones to Neville. And on more than one occasion, he had reached over to cover Neville’s hands with his own in order to illustrate the best way to chop or dice a particular ingredient.

Neville, who was normally a jittering mass of nerves whenever he approached the dungeons, actually looked relaxed. In fact, as far as Harry could tell, Neville had only jumped once, when Malfoy had first taken his hand. 

Harry scowled, then immediately felt a pang of guilt. ‘It’s about time that Neville got the attention he deserves in potions,’ he thought bitterly, laying into his flobberworm with renewed vigor.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

”It hurts, doesn’t it?” Pansy repeated, not looking up from the contents of the cauldron that had just begun to boil.

Harry frowned, looking down at the bloodless mess beneath his hands. “Well, I don’t imagine that it can feel all that great to be torn to bits by some tosser with a knife, now, do you?”

Pansy glared at him before glancing down at the mangled remains. “I wasn’t talking about the worm, you moron. I was talking about Draco.”

Harry looked over just in time to see Malfoy cast a healing charm on Neville’s finger –the blood drying, the skin repairing with the flick of a wand.

“I have no idea what you’re on about, Parkinson.”

Slice. Slice. Chop. Dice. The knife tore through the flesh before him, barely missing his own finger as he turned his ingredients to mush.

“Where were you the night of the Prefects' meeting?” she asked, her voice cool.

The blade sliced deep and Harry cried out.

“Oh, give me that!” Pansy shouted, taking the knife, but leaving him to bleed. “If I lose points on this because of you, Potter, there will be hell to pay!”

Even as he opened his mouth to protest, a spell wrapped around his fingers like a ray of sunlight on a winter’s day – warm and unexpected. He looked immediately to Hermione, but she was too busy trying to mop up some mess – no doubt Crabbe’s doing. 

Against his own better judgment, he glanced ahead, two benches to be exact, only to find Malfoy’s hand wrapped tightly around Neville’s wrist. Together they were stirring their potion – the most beautiful shade of puce that Harry had ever seen — in a steady, even, counter-clockwise stroke.

In the end, Harry and Pansy’s potion was dull mustard. And for the first time, ever, Neville received full marks.


	7. Chapter 7

12:51 p.m., The Great Hall, Gryffindor Table (the following day)

Putting the finishing touches on his History of Magic essay, Harry glanced down the Gryffindor table and smiled, despite himself. One of the first years – Madeline Andrews, he believed her name was — was trying to charm a parchment. For a moment, he forgot his troubles with Malfoy. He let himself be transported back to a simpler time, when he, Ron, and Hermione had laughingly watched Seamus try to transform a goblet of water into rum, only to end up with a face full of smoke. 

Turning his attention back to his essay that was due in less than ten minutes, a shadow of movement caught his eye. Draco Malfoy was walking towards the Gryffindor table, wand in hand. His steps fell gracefully, carrying him across the stone floor with the stealth of a cat. ‘Or a Kneazle,’ Harry thought uncharitably. He straightened in his seat, concern for his younger housemate rising as she, like Seamus so many years before her, was unrepentant in her dedication to her task –a dedication that blinded her to the potential risks of being caught by a Slytherin prefect doing unsupervised magic at lunch time.

Unable to squelch the feeling of impending doom, Harry poked Hermione. She looked up in annoyance from where she’d been correcting Ron’s parchment.

“Malfoy’s about to do something to that first year,” he forecasted.

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to police her own table, Malfoy stopped immediately behind Madeline, who was still busy trying to cast her charm.

Scowling, little Madeline raised her wand and, much to Harry’s alarm, Malfoy raised his, too.

Swish.

Flick.

A shower of sparks flew over Madeline’s shoulder. Before Harry could blink from the shock, the parchment exploded, sending a flock of origami cranes scattering to the far corners of the room.

Squeals of delight filled the air, especially when one of the enchanted birds skidded to a graceful stop across Snape’s half eaten bowl of soup.

Malfoy headed back to the Slytherin table, where he was met with expressions that ranged from puzzlement, disgust, and, if the look on Pansy’s face was anything to go by, dismay.

“For goodness sake!” Hermione shook her head in disbelief.

Following her gaze, Harry looked over to see young Madeline, with a crane in hand, heading toward the snake pit. His eyes widened as she reached out and tugged on Malfoy’s sleeve.

Malfoy turned, his eyes narrowing. “And what may I do for you?” he asked, his genteel tone floating through the Hall that had stilled to an uneasy silence. 

Madeline blushed beneath the older boy’s level stare, but in true Gryffindor fashion, she held her ground. “No cranes went to the Slytherin table.” She lifted her palm to reveal one of the birds that continued to flutter delicately against her skin. “I thought you should have one, as it was your magic, not mine.”

Draco smiled, really smiled, and Harry was hit with a feeling of nostalgia and desire so strong that he felt dizzy. 

“Magic belongs to everyone, my dear Gryffindor.” He plucked the bird out of her hand, cradling it in his palm.

Harry heard Hermione gasp.

“But I thank you nonetheless.”

“What’s going on?!” Ron asked, throwing himself down next to Hermione. “You mean you’re not done yet, Harry? Mione? We’re going to be late!”

“What?” Harry asked, tearing his concentration away from the mini-drama taking place in the divide separating Gryffindor from Slytherin.

“We’re going to be late!” Ron repeated. “Let’s go!”

“Shh!” Harry turned back. 

Madeline had already returned to her seat and was gathering her books.

Pansy sat silently, stroking the dying crane that she’d obviously gotten from Malfoy.

And Malfoy? He was gone.

 

 

“So, Malfoy’s turned bloody magician, has he?” Ron scoffed as the three Gryffindors made their way from Binn’s classroom. “The only kind of seeker Malfoy is is an attention seeker!”

Harry laughed. “It was actually sorta sweet,” he admitted. “Did you see the look on her face when that parchment turned into birds?”

“Hers?” Hermione giggled. “Did you see Snape’s when one landed in his soup?”

“Funny or no,” Ron grumped, “I don’t see why it’s any of his business what the Gryffindors do at their own table!”

“Actually, Ron...” Hermione tossed her hair. “...it wasn’t Malfoy’s business – it was ours. First years aren’t supposed to do unsupervised magic!”

As the three friends rounded the corner, they came face to face with the object of their discussion, flanked, not surprisingly, by his two goons. 

Crabbe looked over at Hermione and smiled, causing Ron to stutter incoherently.

“Go on, then, you lot,” Malfoy commanded, failing to meet Harry’s eyes. He motioned them toward the stairs dismissively. “I haven’t all day, you know!”

Torn between asking Malfoy what he was up to – first with Neville and then with that first year — and getting as far away from him as possible, Harry shook his head and followed Hermione down the stairs. 

Three steps from the bottom, he heard a small thud, followed by an outraged yelp. And with no other warning, he found himself pushed face first into the wall, his body covered by Malfoy's. 

Harry’s entire body flushed hot, remembering all too well that weight against his back. 

In what Harry supposed was an attempt to gain his balance, Malfoy dug his fingers into Harry’s hips, somehow managing to bring them even closer. 

“What the hell?!” Ron demanded. Then suddenly, Malfoy’s heat was stripped away, leaving Harry shaking, his face pressed up against the cool stone. 

“Ten points from Gryffindor!” Malfoy shouted. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry managed to pull himself together enough to turn and face his would be assailant.

“For what?!” Ron’s anger reverberated through the halls.

“For using a tripping jinx on a Prefect, Weasel, as if you didn’t know.”

“Oh, honestly, Ron!” Hermione’s mouth thinned disapprovingly.

“What are you on about, Malfoy?” Ron huffed. “I didn’t touch you!”

“You didn’t have to now, did you?” Malfoy straightened his robes. “It’s a good thing that you waited until I was almost all the way down the stairs, Weasel,” he sneered. “Otherwise it would have been twenty!”

“But, I didn’t!” Ron shot Harry a desperate glance. “I didn’t do it, Harry, honestly.”

Harry looked at Malfoy – really looked him over — and saw the same thing that he’d seen for years: a pointy, pale face wearing a superior smirk and a body marked by an aristocratic bearing that spoke more of money than manners. But regardless of what his eyes told him, his body recognized those hands digging into his flesh. He knew that weight pushing him into the wall. It was the same weight that had pounded him into the mattress and then cuddled him close afterwards, to stop them both from trembling. 

‘I slept with him,’ he admitted, no longer able to pretend otherwise, letting the knowledge sink in and settle somewhere deep inside his bones. Harry closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I lost my virginity to Draco-fucking-Malfoy.’

“Do you have something to say to me, Potter?”

Allowing himself another long look, he took a small step back and raised his hands in what he was afraid looked more like surrender than denial.

“Ha-ary! I didn’t do it, honest!”

“It doesn’t matter, Ron.”

“But he took points!”


	8. Chapter 8

8:42 p.m., The Prefects’ Bathroom

Harry shifted back and forth beneath his invisibility cloak. He hoped that Ron and Hermione hadn't been having a go at him about Malfoy bathing every night at 8:45. Although he wouldn't put it past Ron to have him barge in on a naked Susan Bones, he doubted that Hermione would go for it. Just in case, though, he decided that standing out in the hall, waiting, was probably the safest option.

He sighed, wishing that he'd brought his map with him. But, as Hermione pointed out, it hadn’t been the brightest idea that he'd had to go looking for Malfoy with two forbidden objects – especially since the incident with Malfoy and Ron on the stairs had seemed to signal a drying up of Malfoy’s short-lived fount of pro-Gryffindor sentiment.

Kicking himself for not borrowing Seamus' watch either, Harry was relieved to hear the disturbingly familiar cadence of dress shoes tripping gracefully down the stone corridor.

Turning the corner, Malfoy pulled himself up short. He stopped just inches from where Harry stood silently. Malfoy slung his luxurious bath towel over his shoulder – just missing Harry — and leaned forward to whisper the password.

Harry suppressed the urge to laugh, thinking how unlikely those words seemed coming out of his arch nemesis' mouth. Although, he realized, if Malfoy truly was Marco, then the words "rubber ducky" weren’t the most surprising thing he’d ever heard Malfoy say. He thought back, as he’d done a hundred times in the last hour, to Marco’s muffled declaration of – not love, exactly, but —something unexpected, nonetheless; Harry frowned.

Once the door swung open, Harry slid in behind closely, taking particular care not to bump Malfoy or to jostle his robes. He jumped when the door closed behind him, letting out a silent breath as Malfoy set the lock.

Now that he was well and truly in, it dawned on Harry that he had no idea of how to tell Malfoy he was there, let alone what he wanted to say – assuming that Malfoy let him say anything at all before hexing him into next week.

Hermione's warning came back unbidden: ‘Well, if you’re sure it wasn’t poly-juice potion than it most have been a glamour-spell and those take a tremendous amount of energy. If Malfoy managed one even for as half as long as you were in the bar, then he's much more powerful than I think any of us realize. You must promise me to be careful.’

Not sure that this was what Hermione meant, Harry could only stare as Malfoy kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, and released the single clasp on his robes. Harry’s jaw dropped as black material parted, providing his first glimpse of Malfoy’s naked flesh, which glowed eerily in the dim light.

Beneath the silvery folds of his own cloak, Harry reached up to touch his own neck that hosted the yellowing remains of a bruise. He thought back to the way his teeth had sunk into Marco’s shoulder when he came.

Confronted with Malfoy’s unmarked skin, Harry allowed himself to doubt, for the first time since he’d been molested in the hall: what if it really hadn't been Malfoy? What if it really had been just some random wizard with a magical tattoo on his back?

As Malfoy’s heavy school robes fell to the ground, revealing him in his entirety, the light beneath his skin seemed to dim. And before Harry’s eyes, a pattern of bite marks appeared, just where he'd left them three days ago.

The shadow at Malfoy’s clavicle, by far the worst, was an ugly violet in the center, though the edges had turned almost the color of Harry's and Pansy's failed potion.

‘Definitely a glamour.’ Harry threw off his cloak and took a step forward. "Nice bruises, Malfoy. Given the effort it takes to hide them, it's a wonder you just don't heal them instead."

Malfoy’s eyes flew open, but he recovered quickly. "What the hell are you doing here, Potter?" he demanded, reaching for a towel that he tied securely around his waist. "I could have fifty points for this."

"I’m sure you could," Harry admitted. "In fact, I'm sure that if you told Snape or McGonagall I'd get at least three detentions, if not more."

"Then what are you doing here?" Malfoy picked up his wand from where he'd laid it on the edge of the tub and used it to turn on the faucets. Within seconds, multi-colored steam filled the air.

Harry took an involuntary step forward. "You mean you're not going to turn me in?"

"I'll hear you out first," Malfoy stated. Without meeting Harry's eyes, he turned his back. The snake was gone.

Harry noticed that Malfoy’d kept his wand in hand. He also noticed that Malfoy's skin was smooth, inviting. It was all he could do not to cross the flagstones between them and see if it was as soft as he remembered.

Instead, he took a deep breath and planted his feet. Part of him wanted to wait Malfoy out, to see if the other boy would say something – anything — so that Harry wouldn’t have to. But after a few moments of silence that seemed more like eons, Harry gave.

"Why did you do it?"

“Do what?”

“Do I have to say it?” Harry whispered.

“Come now, Harry....” Malfoy dropped the towel and sat down on the edge of the bath. “Surely you’re not going to be modest, now, are you? I should think we’re past that at this point, wouldn’t you?”

“Why did you do it, Malfoy?” Harry pressed.

Malfoy looked over his shoulder and graced him with a full blown sneer. “Why do you think I did it? What reason could there possibly be other than the obvious?”

Harry started to demand a real answer, but Malfoy beat him to it.

“The-Boy-Who-Lived. Who wouldn’t have done it? It was too good to pass up. Me, Draco Malfoy, deflowering the so-called savior of the wizarding world. ‘Why?’ you ask. Why not? I own you now, whether you realize it or not. I have taken something from you that you will never again possess.”

Harry closed his eyes.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast this morning, Harry? Or the morning before? Or the morning before that? I noticed you watching me, wondering when, wondering how. I can embarrass you,” he said, sliding into the bubbly water. “I can humiliate you. I can hurt you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Harry spat. “If you’d wanted to hurt me, you could have; you would have. You’ve had more than enough opportunities in the last three days to humiliate me and yet you haven’t.”

“I haven’t,” Malfoy agreed, his tone almost amiable, “at least not yet.”

“I don’t believe you,” Harry repeated. “You could have hurt me – really hurt me — and you didn’t.”

“Yet,” Malfoy repeated as he laid his wand near the mirror and dunked himself in the scented water.

“Okay...” Harry pushed his hands into Dudley’s pockets. “...think what you want, Malfoy.”

“Of course I will; I’m a Malfoy.”

Harry opened his mouth, but then closed it. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Tell me why you did it.”

“Tell me why you want to know.”

Realizing that this was getting him no where, Harry took a step closer to the edge of the tub; he could just see the curve of Malfoy’s back where it disappeared into the water. “Do you want to know that I think?”

“Have I ever?”

“I think you did it because you wanted to.”

“Well of course I wanted to – Malfoys never do anything against their will.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Harry objected. “I think you did it because you liked it.”

Malfoy laughed. “You think I liked it – as in liking you? Hardly, Potter. So if you’re here because you want to be my girlfriend, I’m going to have to disappoint. Though I suppose, now that I think about it, it’s not surprising, really.”

Harry took a step back. “So you’re saying that you didn’t like it?”

“Is this your Gryffindor way of telling me that you did?” Malfoy shot him a quick glance, but failed to meet his eyes. “But of course you did. You really should have seen yourself, Potter. You were so easy, it was actually quite pathetic. You couldn’t keep your hands off of me...and the look on your face when you admitted you were a virgin.” Malfoy chortled, turning again to face the wall. “I swear. I’ll take that to the grave.”

“Well...” Harry tried to control his voice. “...if it was so bloody awful, then perhaps you can tell me one thing?”

Malfoy glanced over, one brow arched high.

“Who sucked off whom, first?”

Malfoy turned his body around in the water and met Harry’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered the room. “I am impressed, Potter,” he admitted. “Perhaps if you’d use your deductive reasoning so well in Potions, Slytherin wouldn’t be leading Gryffindor by a whopping 70 points.”

Harry hated the blush that he knew was staining his cheeks. He also hated that he wasn’t wearing his school robes; he felt as naked as Malfoy, dressed, as he was, once again in Dudley’s cast-offs. “What’s your point?” Harry spat, embarrassment coloring his words.

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” Malfoy granted, without answering the question.

“You’re giving me ten points?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Malfoy answered easily, as if Harry had asked him the time. As if he wasn’t naked when Harry was fully clothed. As if they had never fucked.

“But – but why?”

“Do you even remember that night, Harry?” For less than a second, raw emotion marred Malfoy’s cool exterior, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Not quite sure what he’d seen Harry opened his mouth, but then closed it without saying a word.

Malfoy shook his head, before looking away. “I did it because I could.” Malfoy picked up his wand and pointed it a spot just past Harry’s shoulder. “And because I wanted to. Alohomora,” he cast, before laying his wand aside and letting it roll carelessly out of reach. “Now don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”


	9. Chapter 9

Still clad in his cloak, Harry slid into the Gryffindor common room, close on the heels of an unsuspecting Colin Creevey. Although he knew that Hermione, Ron, and Seamus were sitting around the fire for a reason, he skirted the outside of the room silently and headed up the stairs to the boys’ dorms.

Luckily the room was empty, and he shucked off his cloak before throwing himself face first down on the bed. Without lifting his head, he charmed the curtains shut, and mumbled a silencing charm for good measure.

“Damn Malfoy!” he cursed, burying his face in the pillow. “Stupid Slytherin bastard.”

Taking a deep breath, he flopped over and stared at the ceiling. Against his better judgment, he thought back to the night at the bar, forcing himself to superimpose Malfoy’s face and body over that of his so-called mystery lover.

It was not that difficult, especially now that he’d seen Malfoy naked. At least he knew that he hadn’t been imagining things when he thought Marco had been surprisingly light, his face too narrow, and his hair, on occasion, platinum.

“Leave it to Malfoy to use a glamour charm,” he groused, “instead of Poly-juice potion like everyone else.” 

Without thinking too much about what he was doing, Harry reached and stroked his own face, keeping his fingers light against his skin. Since he’d returned from London, he’d relived the scene in the bar, especially the part in the loo, more times than he could count. 

Whereas before all his fantasies had been half formed images of Pavarti, Cho, and on occasion, Fred, Harry now found himself with a true subject. He wasn’t confusing his feelings for love or anything like that, but now that he knew....he couldn’t help but wish.... 

‘Don’t ever push me away, Harry.’

“Wanking to Draco Malfoy....” Harry rolled his eyes, but his embarrassment didn’t stop his breath from hitching as his hand wandered lower on his chest, stroking down towards his abdomen. Shaking his head, Harry unbuckled Dudley’s belt, and slipped the top button on his jeans. 

‘Promise me.’

Trying his best to concentrate once again on Marco – because things were just too bloody confusing when it was Malfoy — he traced the strip of skin between the cotton T - and the denim waist, remembering the feel of other hands, another’s tongue.

‘I promise.’

Then, with all the subtlety of those movies that Dudley would watch after Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were asleep, Harry’s mind jumped directly to the men’s loo. Even now, he could still feel his back against the wall. 

Pushing deeper into his mattress, Harry slid the zipper down and wriggled out of the jeans; reaching inside his boxers, he began to fondle himself. He was already hard. In fact, if he were honest, he had been for quite a while.

In his mind’s eye, he watched as Marco swallowed the head of his cock, but within seconds, the image changed. No longer was he disappearing under a riot of dark curls, but rather, a shimmering curtain of white blond wisps. 

“No!” Harry cried out in denial, but when his fantasy lover glanced up, he found himself drowning in a pair of fathomless grey eyes.

He came with a shout, his entire body shaking with the shock of it. He lay there for a moment, as much disgusted as he was turned on, before casting a cleaning charm and sliding beneath the covers.

The instant that he released the curtains, the red velvet flung back, revealing Seamus, who was eyeing him with interest. “Went that well, did it?”

Harry pulled the sheets up around his chin and glared. He cast a quick glance to the door.

“Don’t worry.” Seamus set on the edge of the mattress, pressing his hip against Harry’s thigh. “Ron and Hermione are downstairs and Dean and Neville are in the library working on their herbology journal. So was it him?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, and it was a glamour; he’s been hiding the bruises, too.”

Seamus’ brow furrowed. “So he kept them, then?”

“I suppose so.”

“That takes a lot of power according to Hermione.”

“I know...” Harry rolled his eyes. “...just what we need, right?”

“What, knowing it was him or finding out that our resident death-eater-in-training has enough wizarding power to light up a small village?”

Harry scowled, only to be answered with a grin. 

“And here we were thinking that he was just pretty.”

“He is pretty,” Harry admitted. “Bet you never thought you’d hear me say that, now, did you?”

Seamus didn’t comment, but his expression grew serious. “So what did he say?”

“Nothing,” Harry whispered. 

“He didn’t say why?”

“He didn’t say anything I believed.”

“Don’t you mean 'anything you wanted to hear'?”

Harry met Seamus’ eyes and the silence stretched between them, reminding him of the gossamer strands of memory that he’d once seen Dumbledore cast into his pensieve. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me.” 

“He said he did it because now he has the power to humiliate me...” Harry looked away. “...to hurt me.”

“And you didn’t believe him?” 

“No.”

“That’s what you thought three days ago,” reminded Seamus. “Why’d you change your mind?”

Harry shrugged. “He wouldn’t have waited this long; he would have done it before now. Besides, if that had been his intention, it would have been me down on my knees in the men's loo. You know what I mean?”

“Did you say that?”

“Well, kinda.” Harry admitted with a small smile. 

Seamus pulled back, “And...?”

“He – he, well, he actually gave me ten points.”

“He what?!” Seamus practically shouted. “Ten house points?”

Harry nodded. “He told me that if I used such reasoning in potions that Gryffindor might actually not be so far behind for the cup. Merlin, he’s such a wanker!”

“Malfoy – Draco Malfoy — gave you ten points?” Seamus asked slowly, as if Harry were an idiot. 

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “And when I asked him why, he said he did it because he could and because he wanted to. Personally, I think he was just giving us back the points that he stole from Ron today, when he accused him of throwing that phony tripping jinx.”

Seamus shook his head. “I hate to agree with Malfoy about anything, let alone your reasoning capacity Harry, but listen to yourself.”

“What?”

“Have you ever known Malfoy to lie or to steal?”

Harry cocked his eyebrow and gave Seamus a hard look. “We are talking about Malfoy, are we not?”

“Okay...” Seamus paused. “Have you ever known of Malfoy ever returning something that he’s stolen or trying to right some other wrong that he’s brought about?”

Harry barely hesitated. “No.”

“And do you really think he feels bad about those 10 points he got off Ron?”

“Absolutely not.”

“So, he gave you the points because you were right, Harry, because you caught him at his own game. So whatever you said hit close enough to home that he decided to acknowledge it – acknowledge you.” Seamus patted Harry’s knee. “So what was it that you asked, exactly?”

Harry blushed. “I don’t remember.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Seamus informed him with a sidewise grin. “But never you mind. So, you know it was Malfoy and he now knows that you know, yet you don’t think he’s going to tell and you don’t think that he’s going to use it against you. What are you going to do, then? Forget about it? Pretend it never happened?” 

Harry sat silently for a moment, considering his options. “Seamus?”

Seamus cocked his head to one side. 

“Do you still happen to have that tequila?” Harry asked. “You know, that was left over from that party with Slytherin and Ravenclaw?”

“Why?” 

“I think I owe Malfoy a drink.”

“If he’s such a wanker – your words not mine — and he’s giving you an out,” Seamus began, sounding suspiciously like Hermione, “then why press your luck?”

Harry took a sudden interest in the beam above his bed, fixing his gaze above Seamus’ shoulder. “I – there are just some things I want to know, that’s all.”

“Such as?”

Harry exhaled loudly then turned to face his friend – the friend who had gotten him into all this to begin with. “I want to know why he helped Neville in potions. I want to know why he charmed that first year’s parchment.” He fiddled with the blanket, all too aware of Seamus’ careful scrutiny. 

“But mainly,” he continued, finally able to admit the truth. “Mainly, I want to kiss him – Malfoy —just one time, while knowing it’s him. I want – I mean....” Harry took a deep breath. “It’s not like I wasn’t thinking about him the entire time that night as it was — I guess I just need to know if it’d be different knowing that it’s him and not just someone that’s not...” Harry faltered. “...that’s not just someone that I’d like to be him. Do you have any idea what I’m trying to say?”

Seamus rested his hand on Harry’s knee. “I do,” he answered.

Harry bit back a laugh. “I’m glad one of us does.”

“I meant I still had the tequila, mate...” Seamus grinned and punched him on the arm, sounding once again the smart ass that Harry knew him to be. “...but beyond that, you’re entirely on your own.”


	10. Chapter 10

9:47 p.m., Slytherin Dungeons

Over the years, Harry had gotten better at being invisible under his invisibility cloak. He had always been good, but now he was scarily good – rarely jostling tapestries or bumping into tables. Because of his capability for stealth, he didn’t think twice about following Malfoy into the Slytherin Common room. And, yet, despite his cleverness, he was quite relieved when Malfoy, much like he’d done the night before, skirted the walls and headed, well, not up the stairs, but, rather, down. 

The first surprise was when Malfoy entered not the 7th year boys’ dorm, but rather a private room, outfitted in Slytherin’s colors and hosting a full sized bed, complete with a silver canopy. The second surprise was when Malfoy turned and looked straight at him, through his own silver canopy of sorts.

“You realize that I could hex you six ways from solstice and no one would be the wiser.”

Almost dropping the velvet bag that held the tequila and limes, Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak in a series of short, jerky movements. “How did you know I was here?” he demanded.

Malfoy looked unimpressed as the shimmering material hit the floor. “I’m not stupid. Besides, you’re not as good as you think you are – I scented you the moment we entered the dungeons.”

“You smelled me?”

Malfoy straightened. “I have lived in these dungeons for almost seven years. I know them like the back of my hand. I know every sound and every smell. When something’s off I’m apt to notice.”

“But how did you know it was me?” Harry asked, without thinking. 

“Think about it,” Malfoy sneered. “I know everything about you. I know how you look. I know how you feel. I know how you sound. I know how you taste.”

Harry blushed.

“Is it any real surprise that I also I know how you smell?” Malfoy shook his head before turning his back as if Harry was no threat at all. “First rule of war, Potter: ‘Know thy enemy.’”

Harry bit his lip, trying, unsuccessfully, to swallow the smile. “Don’t you think you took it a bit far?”

Malfoy turned back, his brow lifted. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I can sense you even though you are, for all intents and purposes, invisible.” Malfoy drew his wand and spelled the door locked. “You’re deep in Slytherin territory and I can damn well guarantee that none of your Gryffindor pals know where you are. You have, for want of a better phrase, delivered yourself to me.”

Harry placed the bag on the desk, and wrapped his arms around his waist, before forcing them to his sides. As much as he hated to admit it, Malfoy had a point. “So this was all some sort of elaborate plan to turn me over to Voldemort?”

Malfoy cringed, and, inwardly, Harry was pleased.

“Are you telling me that this...” Harry waved his hand between them. “...was something that you cooked up with dear old dad? ‘Oh, I’ll be happy to fuck Potter, Father, could you please pass the potatoes?’” he mocked. “‘Oh, and by the way, does this mean that I’ll be getting an increase in my allowance?’”

“Fuck you, Potter!”

“Been there, done that,” pointed out Harry. “And then some, as I recall.”

They stood there, silent. 

Just as Harry began to doubt his sanity and wonder if maybe Malfoy really had lured him here as part of his death-eater initiation, Malfoy glanced over to the velvet pouch, his eyes glittering.

“Presents, Harry?” he asked with feigned disinterest. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“Not presents, Draco...” the name rolled off his tongue like venom. “...just something I owed you.”

Harry took two steps back, only to have Malfoy take two steps forward. He maintained the distance between them as Malfoy made his way to the desk and opened the bag.

“What’s this?” 

”I figured I owed you,” Harry admitted, doing his best not to lose the defiance that characterized the majority of his conversations with Malfoy. “I figured that you owed me as well.”

Malfoy pulled out the bottle of Sauza and plunked it on the desk with a resounding thud. “What could I possibly owe you? An apology, perhaps?”

Harry shook his head and mustered up the courage to take a step forward, then another.

Malfoy straightened, seeming to realize that Harry was substantially closer and that he, himself, was quickly being caged in. He cleared his throat. “Well good, because you’re not going to get one. In fact, you should be thanking me.”

That stopped Harry. “How do you figure?”

“It was really quite stupid of you,” Malfoy pointed out. “Even if it had been a muggle, he could have been a murderer or some other sort of psychopath. What do you think Dumbledore would have said to know that you, our so called savior, had risked himself like that for a quick shag? Besides...” Malfoy sniffed. “...at least I took the time to make it good for you.”

“And why was that, exactly?” Harry leaned over and opened the bottle. He glanced at Malfoy’s profile, before transfiguring two quills into shot glasses.

“Those are my favorite quills!” Malfoy shouted, reaching for the newly minted tumblers.

Harry slapped his hands away. “And they will be again,” he assured as he poured two shots of the pungent liquid. Ignoring Malfoy’s muttered complaints, Harry reached into the bag, pulled out the limes and used a cutting spell that he’d learned from Mrs. Weasley to quarter them into bite size pieces. 

“So, answer the question, Malfoy,” Harry commanded. “Why was that? Why did you bother to make it good....” He paused. “...for me?”

“Why don’t you answer your own bloody question, Boy-who-lived-to-be-a-flaming-nuisance?” Draco turned to walk away, only to find himself back against the desk when Harry stepped into his path.

Harry leaned forward until he could feel the heat radiating off Malfoy’s face. “And what question was that?”

“Wha –what....” Malfoy flushed. “What do I owe you, then, if you didn’t come here for an apology?”

“Ah.” Harry straightened, giving his nemesis room to catch his breath. “You owe me a kiss.”

Malfoy snorted. “What? In the course of your undoubtedly many wank fests, you’ve come to the conclusion that you are operating at a deficit? That you, perhaps, kissed me, one too many times?” He laughed, obviously warming to his topic. “It’s not all that surprising, really, I am absolutely irresistible and you really were well on your way to being pathetically in love with me.”

“No,” Harry interrupted. “It was never you.”

Malfoy’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. 

“I admit,” Harry continued, “that I was well on my way, but it wasn’t you.” He let his hand fall, and their fingers brushed gently together before Malfoy shifted out of reach. “I don’t know how many times who kissed whom. But you, at least, were kissing me. I, on the other hand, have never kissed you, despite the fact that technically you were my first.” Harry leaned forward, until his temple touched Malfoy’s; he could feel Malfoy’s ragged breath on his neck, just beneath the collar of his well worn shirt. 

“One kiss, Malfoy, with me knowing it’s you.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Malfoy whispered without pulling away; if anything, he seemed to shift even closer.

“Go on, Malfoy,” Harry whispered, throwing Marco’s words back into Malfoy’s face. “Do your worst.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watched Malfoy set the untouched glass of tequila on the desk. Somewhere between relieved and disappointed, Harry closed his eyes. Just as he braced himself to be pushed away, he felt the slide of smooth skin across his face. A gentle touch skated across his scar, and trembling hands removed his glasses. 

Harry’s eyes flew open and he turned, bringing the two of them forehead to forehead. He took in the graceful lines of Malfoy’s aristocratic face, his overly long lashes that fluttered across skin that looked like the smoothest satin, the delicate ridges of his nose, and the shadowed angles of his narrow chin. 

Setting his own drink to the side, Harry cupped Malfoy’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes. The jolting familiarity of the look – that same unnamed thing that he’d seen in Marco’s eyes — stopped Harry in his tracks. “Mal – Malfoy?”

Without answering, Malfoy closed his eyes and leaned forward, drawing his lips across Harry’s in a surprisingly chaste kiss. He pulled back, glancing up to catch Harry’s reaction, before leaning forward again; this time not so chaste.

Harry gasped, only to have Malfoy deepen the kiss, his tongue snaking into Harry’s mouth. But it wasn’t the duel that Harry’d been expecting, but rather a thorough exploration...a kiss that he would have wanted of a potential lover. 

Malfoy pulled back, but then returned, sucking on Harry’s lower lip. He cradled Harry’s face, his fingertips sliding into Harry’s hair, holding him. 

Perfectly willing to let Malfoy have control, Harry let his own inhibitions crumble. He fisted his hands in Malfoy’s robes, pulling him close. 

The kiss continued and, much to Harry’s chagrin, his body didn’t seem to care that it was Malfoy. As the now all too familiar flood of arousal rushed south, he realized, with a start, where this could be heading, and, in fact, probably was. Going against everything his body was telling him, Harry forced himself to end it. Taking a ragged breath, he pushed Malfoy away. 

Malfoy met Harry’s gaze questioningly, before leaning back in for another kiss. 

For a moment, Harry was tempted, but Malfoy’s taunting words came floating back, bringing with it an inkling of doubt. ‘Was he really Malfoy’s enemy?’ Memories of his night with Marco returned, alternating with images of Malfoy helping Neville in potions and the look of joy on Madeline Andrew’s face and he was unsure. But then older images – hurtful images — sprang forward, years of them in fact, and there was no way he could be certain. “No.”

Malfoy’s entire body shuddered and his eyes sharpened.

Hating the necessity of it, Harry took two shuffling steps backwards, but remained within easy reach. Malfoy, however, did not make any move to stop him and, once again, Harry wasn’t sure whether the roiling in his stomach was disappointment or relief. 

“I was thinking....” Harry swallowed noisily. “I was thinking about something that Mar – that Marco said to me right before he fell asleep.”

Malfoy turned a deep shade of scarlet and looked away.

Leaning forward, Harry pressed his lips to Malfoy’s heated flesh. “It is a pity, Malfoy,” he murmured, his words painting the last kiss that they would probably ever share. “....because I think that, maybe, had things been different, I could have loved you, too.”

Without another word, Harry wrenched himself away, picked up his glasses, and grabbed his invisibility cloak from where it lay discarded on the floor. He stopped by the spell locked door and looked at Malfoy expectantly before removing himself from the other boy’s sight. 

Scarcely drawing a breath, Malfoy picked up his wand and lifted the spell without a word. And as Harry turned to go, all he heard was the tinkling of glass shattering against the cold stone walls. 

FIN


End file.
